Alien Nation Page #6

HUMAN COP:

Whoa, whoa... hold it. Take it easy.

(to alien on the

ground)

You okay?

Sykes stops struggling, and his eyes focus. He looks at

the alien he just decked, sprawled on his ass ten feet

away. The alien is a uniformed cop... his name is JETSON.

JETSON:

I am all right.

He gets up. A trickle of purple blood runs from his nose.

HUMAN COP:

I better call in.

He moves off. Jetson moves toward Sykes and the Raincoat

alien's body. Sykes tenses, thinking Jetson might

retaliate in some way. But Jetson simply steps past him

to kneel beside the dead alien. He checks for a pulse on

the underside of the dead alien's upper arm. Nothing.

Sykes is holding his punching hand in obvious pain. He

struggles to rise. Jetson gets an arm around him to help

him up.

JETSON:

Your hand will require attention.

Sykes roughly jerks himself free of Jetson's grip.

SYKES:

Get the hell away from me! I don't

need your goddamn help.

He almost loses his balance and has to steady himself

against the tunnel wall. Sykes leans there, the picture

of impotent rage and frustration. Jetson looks at him,

with that slight inquisitive expression aliens exhibit

when trying to understand human nature.

EXT. MINI-MART - NIGHT

OPEN on Tuggle's body, as the body bag is zipped up over

his face, and the litter is lifted into the back of the

Coroner's wagon.

WIDEN to reveal Sykes, standing nearby, watching. The

Wagon pulls out, and Sykes turns, moving past all the LAPD

black-and-whites and forensics wagons, and COPS (two of

them aliens) and DETECTIVES, and RUBBERNECKERS (some

alien). He moves into:

INT. MINI-MART - NIGHT

The CRIME SCENE TEAM is checking for prints, digging slugs

out of the wall, photographing everything. Several

UNIFORMED COPS mill around. Sykes moves aimlessly around

the room like a stranger at a party.

The Proprietor's Wife stands near the body in a strange

rigid posture, a thin, mournful KEENING SOUND coming from

her lips. A harried female uniformed cop is trying to get

her away from the body, but can't get her to budge.

MINKLER, a ballistics guy, is tagging the pump-shotgun the

Raincoat alien dropped here. NATUZZI, a mean-looking

veteran uniform cop is with him.

NATUZZI:

Looks like a standard combat pump-

action.

MINKLER:

It is.

NATUZZI:

So what punched holes clear through

that car out there?

Minkler pulls an evidence baggie from his work box.

Inside are four unfired twelve gauge shells.

MINKLER:

BRI Sabot slugs. These puppies are

nasty. Two plastic sabots fall away

in flight leaving a fifty-caliber

slug going two thousand feet per

second. Tug might as well've been

hiding behind a rosebush.

Minkler senses somebody has just stepped up beside him.

He looks. It's Sykes.

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